We speak of all
The holy burning oils
We speak just like
The daughters of the soil
Who dress themselves
In pretty Queen Anne's Lace
And smear all of the red dirt
On their faces
And we're wandering
Like all the souls at large
Reluctantly agreeing
To take charge
And stake our claims
On tiny bits of land
To hold the simple glory
In our hands
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh
Oh, oh, oh
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh
And all the bull finches
And all the meadow thrushes
Shall spread their slender wings
Like the bristles of the brushes
And the elevated symphony
Of all the insect choruses
Shall call out our names
As they desperately implore us
And our eyes see
Even through the gloom
The rows and rows
Of shallow graves and tombs
Of all of the ancient
And the old
Of all the saints
Who let their spirits go
Of all the saints
Who let their spirits go
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh
Oh, oh, oh
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh
And we stand quiet
Above the braes and vales
Our eyes take in the morning
In all her minor details
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh
Oh, oh, oh
I want to walk with you
I want to walk with
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh
Oh, oh, oh
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh
Oh, oh, oh
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh
Oh, oh, oh
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh
Oh, oh, oh
Oh, oh